


45s and midnight

by orphan_account



Category: American Idol RPF, Rock Music RPF
Genre: M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It must be some testament to the musician in both of you, the collection of vinyl and cassettes and hell, there are probably some eight tracks sitting in a box somewhere, hand me downs from a family that thrives on nostalgia with photo albums three deep on the shelves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	45s and midnight

**Author's Note:**

> for [](http://circlesanthem.livejournal.com/profile)[**circlesanthem**](http://circlesanthem.livejournal.com/) for her birthday. Desi gave me [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/we_are_cities/22008.html#cutid1) to work with. Uhhh, this took a slightly depressing turn... Sorry it's not a happy happy story honey, but this is the first thought I had when I looked at that prompt. Thanks to [](http://courts.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://courts.livejournal.com/)**courts** for looking this over for me.
> 
> This is another old fic, brought over from LJ

 

_it may just be the hour of the night_  
 _or the song stuck in my head_  
 _or some strange mix of it all._

\- pete wentz

 

 

It must be some testament to the musician in both of you, the collection of vinyl and cassettes and hell, there are probably some eight tracks sitting in a box somewhere, hand me downs from a family that thrives on nostalgia with photo albums three deep on the shelves. You’ve got anything you could possibly want to listen to broken down into bits or bytes or whatever on the computer upstairs, but you can’t stomach the thought of losing this touch memory, faded sunlight through recycled curtains some lifetime ago, the ripple of sound under your fingertips even before you touched the needle down and the one woman that you think could never let you down bouncing up on her toes to the beat.

 

_bury my face in a photobook, my soul lives on the beat._

 

It’s dust and scratches now, songs skipping along the year worn grooves – smooth sailing aided by the bump of your hip. It’s a memory caught up in a verse, a moment of your life caught in hard copy.

 

_knock the needle to the next track, I wanna dance with you._

 

You sit in the basement at god knows what hour, long past midnight and dawn creeping over the horizon some thousand miles away. Your fingers trip through the stacks, _maybe this, maybe that_ like they already know the destination, touch the needle down to black.

 

_play me just another song, another memory of you._

 

You have a collection of memories, some buried deep and some right at the surface, half of which belong to him. You like to think you’re keeping them for his sake, some whispered wish caught in the air between you some night you remember in half sleep. You remember his skin against yours, the dip of the bed settling weight at your back. You remember the brush of his lips, dry against the back of your neck. You remember his favorite song, tears spilling onto dust in a basement that holds your memories safe, the lock and key to your heart.

 

 

 

  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/misskatieleigh/pic/000kxhhk/)

 

 


End file.
